A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up, Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. (b 1770 - A simple child, d 1850). That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell. And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little Maid reply, "You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit "And often after sunset, Sir, "The first that died was little Jane; Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. "So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" LUCY GRAY. OR, SOLITUde. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray "To-night will be a stormy night You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light "That, Father! will I gladly do: The Minster-clock has just struck two, At this the Father raised his hook, He plied his work; and Lucy took Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The snow came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb; The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept and, turning homeward, cried, "In Heaven we all shall meet:" - When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Half breathless from the steep hill's edge |